


Patrilineal

by orphan_account



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Adult Content, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Tybalt's father dies, his world begins to crumble around him. Somehow the only constant remains Mercutio. (or "the story of why Tybalt is fucked in the head") Please read the author's note first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work represents a milestone for me as a writer.
> 
> For a long time, I've found the character of Tybalt fascinating; his backstory, his allegiances, his intense family ties. I've explored him before; but not in as much detail as I'm going to here. This is Tybalt's story- and it isn't a nice one.
> 
> To avoid triggering anyone, I'm just going to come right out and say it; Tybalt's dad hits him. Tybalt's uncle hits him. Lady Capulet was into her brother, and after he dies she does... things to Tybalt that an aunt really shouldn't do. I'm borrowing from ResJ here, so she doesn't actually go that far with him, but it's pretty heavily implied that if he weren't so closely related to her, she *would*. This story will also deal with Tybalt's realization of his developing feelings for Juliet, which I dealt with in Dovere, another one of my stories. For further reference on Tybalt's father, Night Alive would be a good one of mine to read.
> 
> This gets dark. It deals with really uncomfortable things. The Capulet family is screwed up. I've never written anything like this before, so I'm excited, but if you don't have the stomach for it don't make yourself forge along. Best wishes, Lydia.

_He was born late on a chilly night in early November, the fourth son and the first one to survive birth. From the outset he was a hearty child, with a yell like a foghorn and a head sparsely covered with dark hair. He came out with his fists clenched; this, his mother decreed, signified that he was a fighter. They named him Tybalt Victoranius Capulet; victory, as his parents both knew, was what their little warrior was destined for._

_Tybalt had not been born a handsome child, but from the day he was born he lived to make his parents proud._

xXx

It was a day completely unremarkable from any other.

Tybalt was awake early, already at the kitchen table and drinking a hot mug of coffee with a book sitting open in his lap when his father came downstairs. Tiberius Capulet had his sneakers dangling by the laces from one hand; his morning run was a respected routine he’d practiced for as long as Tybalt could remember, and the aging warrior took pride in the shape he managed to stay in thanks to it. More than once, he’d tried to convince his son to come along; but spending quality time with his father was hardly Tybalt’s idea of a good time. With a nod of greeting as his father sat down at the table, Tybalt pushed a second mug of black coffee over to him and returned to his book.

“You’re up early,” the older man observed, pulling on his sneakers with one hand as the other sipped from the porcelain mug. Tybalt shrugged his shoulders; he had, in fact, been up this morning since before the sun, for no reason other than restlessness, but he knew that his father wouldn’t care one way or the other. As it was, the attempt to make small talk was pathetic at best; and Tybalt despised small talk.

“You shouldn’t read so much.” The mug was still steaming, but that didn’t stop Tiberius from draining it in one gulp before he turned his hard, ash black eyes on his son again. “Focus more on training; things that will build character.”

“This is a book on advanced fighting techniques,” replied Tybalt impassionately, holding up the book for his father to see the cover of it. The thick-browed Capulet leaned in, studying the novel scrutinizingly for a moment, before giving a grunt and a nod of satisfaction. This was as close to approval as Tybalt ever got from his father; even though he chided himself by reminding that he really didn’t care, he couldn’t help but run that one moment over in his head more than once as his father straightened up again.

“I’m off now,” he announced, springing to his feet and crossing the kitchen in a few short bounds. Tybalt’s eyes followed his father across the room; closely cropped black hair and a neatly-kept mustache only seemed to highlight the older man’s clearly defined muscles. These, along with his considerable height, would be enough to intimidate anyone; the man’s entire appearance made it clear that he was someone who was in control, at all times, and did not enjoy or tolerate being challenged. Yet without a doubt, the most frightening thing about Tybalt’s father was his air; he carried himself with confidence, with unquestionable authority. This was a man who knew what he wanted, when he wanted it, and was going to get exactly that.

Tybalt didn’t say a word to his father as he stepped out of the house and took off running down the street; his eyes studied the door as it slid shut behind him. Once he was finally alone he allowed his spine to relax, and slumped over the table with a sigh.

When he’d look back later, Tybalt would think that it shouldn’t have felt like a normal day; he shouldn’t have been able to feel comfortable, or relaxed. He should have felt sickness in the air that day; he should have sensed the shadows of death, hanging over that house, caressing his father’s face, tainting everything they touched black and unreal and ruined.

But he didn’t sense anything. As he picked up his book again and returned his attention, it was just any other day.

xXx

_They first met in pre-school; Mercutio was a rosy cheeked toddler with a fair amount of baby fat, and Tybalt never failed to notice the way teachers and parents alike always looked at the little golden haired boy and whispered to each other: “the prince’s nephew”. It instilled in Tybalt almost a sense of reveration towards the other child; but a few days into the start of the school year, when Mercutio held out a stick and loudly demanded that Tybalt sword fight with him, it dawned on the small Capulet that the much gossiped about prince’s nephew was nothing more than another child. And an irritating one, at that._

xXx

To Mercutio, as well, that day was different from no other. 

In fact, the morning had been rather boring; despite having stayed over at the Montague mansion the night before, a restless mind still drove him to wander at around half past six that morning, when the sun was only just declaring its triumph over the yet retreating night. Often he found himself pushed to roam when sleep eluded him, and hours really had no consequence, nor did the company he found himself in. This morning, Benvolio had refused to allow him to go out so early alone, and had determined that he would go with him (a groggy Romeo would not be roused from his slumber, and uttered some very choice words when his friends attempted it).

Not long after being outside, they had run into several more of the Montague cousins, more distant relations than Benvolio but on friendly terms all the same; Emilio, a tall, broad chested boy of seventeen, and his brother three years his junior, a fair haired young man called Alessandro. The brothers had joined up with their cousin and his compatriot, so it was this company Mercutio found himself joined by; together, the small group roamed the streets searching for anything possible to keep them entertained.

Emilio was still smarting over a conflict with the Capulets from several days ago, and took the chance to ramble about it; Mercutio hadn’t been involved himself, something he quite regretted since it apparently involved quite a few people winding up in the middle of the great fountain in the heart of town, but he had borne personal witness to both Romeo’s enthusiastic recounting and the subsequent headaches of his uncle. Evidently, the Capulets had come out on higher ground; Mercutio was little surprised to hear that it had been the dark nephew, Tybalt, at the center of the brawl.

“He didn’t even blink once,” complained Emilio, himself fingering his sword in his hands as he spoke. “Just swung his weapon the entire time; like a machine.”

“There’s no better swordsman in all of Verona, loathe as I am to give old _spada testa_ as much credit,” agreed Mercutio, half-skipping along the outskirts of the group. “He parries and blows like a robot trying to learn the human art of dance- as well as emotion.”

He was satisfied with the amused snorts his comment drew from most of the group; but Emilio, evidently distracted, didn’t even react. His attention was fixed on something else, far across the sparsely populated stone street.

Mercutio followed his gaze until his eyes locked on a lone figure running down the sidewalk; the familiar man, muscular and broadly-built, was certainly not someone Mercutio had any desire to engage, but Emilio seemed to feel differently. “Do you know who that is?” he questioned the group, drawing their attention to the man for the first time; Benvolio frowned, and Emilio’s own brother tilted his head in question.

“That man is none other,” Emilio dictated with a serpentine grin, “than Tybalt Capulet’s father.”

Alessandro mirrored his brother’s expression, seeming infinitely amused by the new development; Mercutio’s interest, too, was piqued, though he couldn’t escape the notice that Benvolio looked troubled. “Takes a beast to raise a beast,” young Alessandro hooted, and it was his exclamation that drew the attention of the older Capulet. The man paused in his run, glancing at the youths with narrowed eyes.

“You know what they say,” continued Emilio brazenly, “about Lady Capulet.”

“No. What do they say?”

“They say-” His teeth bared in a pointy grin that made Mercutio’s stomach sink at the realisation of what was seconds away from happening, “that she and her brother are a bit _too_ close. And Lady Capulet’s only daughter is the borne evidence-”

“Watch your mouth, scum boy!” The shout from across the street made Mercutio tense up; next to him, he saw Benvolio’s face darken. The Capulet was already striding towards them, his hand hovering over his pocket. He wore an expression of rage that said there wasn’t any way of getting out of this one easily.

“Can we not avoid a fight today?” Benvolio pleaded, somewhat desperately. “The city isn’t even awake yet.”

“Yes,” Emilio smirked, “but we are. And we’re not the only ones!” He spun around, rapier in the air, more than ready to take on the incensed Capulet. “How nice of you to join us, sir.”

“Your tongue should be cut out,” snarled Tiberius Capulet. “Since you clearly can’t control it.”

“Did I ask for your opinion, filth-blooded Capulet?”

This was the final straw; insulting him and his sister was like lighting a match under a barrel full of gunpowder, but dragging blood into it meant dousing the barrel in gasoline. Now the entire house of Capulet had been insulted; it wasn’t just out of honor that a fight had to stir, but necessity. Mercutio couldn’t hide the wince that appeared on his face. Benvolio was right; it was too early for this. 

Tybalt’s father’s back straightened. “Filthy?” he echoed, his glower shifting to something a little more menacing. “ _My_ blood? The blood of my family?” he chuckled darkly. “We’ll see.”

Before Mercutio could even move, the older man’s hand had lashed out, and Mercutio’s own blade was snatched from his belt; Tiberius brandished the sword proudly, squaring up against the challenging Montague teen. Obviously distressed but probably a bit frightened to get involved at this point, Benvolio shrunk back, and Mercutio laid a soothing hand on the other boy’s shoulder. Unconsciously, Benvolio relaxed at the touch; Mercutio was glad his own anxiousness wasn’t visible on his face.

He knew Tybalt’s father, personally, and he was not a man to be trifled with. Moreover, he knew of his reputation, and how little of it was just talk; in the less-policed days of Verona’s streets, during the heated blood of the fighting years ago, he knew from his uncle’s records that more than one unlucky challenger had met the wrong end of Tiberius’s sword. Mercutio doubted Emilio had a clue what he was getting into.

“He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Probably,” Mercutio agreed flatly. He wasn’t surprised that blood would be spilled today; the very reason for his restlessness that morning had been an unrelenting plague of dreams, courtesy of Queen Mab herself no doubt, of blood and hatred and swords clashing, that had left him quite unable to stay in bed another minute. It could, he realized now, only have been an omen.

“Gentlemen-” Benvolio spoke up, but was roughly cut off when Mercutio clamped a hand roughly over his mouth, pulling the peace-loving fool behind him to stop him from doing something he’d regret. There was no getting in between them now, he knew, not if you didn’t want a sword through the gut. The two brawlers were already facing off, glowering at each other and just waiting for the first move to be made.

It was Emilio who flicked his blade forward first, only to be sharply cut off by Tiberius’s own swing. The Capulet turned the attack inwards on Emilio himself, leaving him just able to swipe his own sword aside before being impaled. As he spun out of the way, eyes wide, Tiberius lunged for him again; this time he wasn’t able to avoid a cut to the shoulder, and a cry of pain escaped him as his sword came up to block the next blow.

Mercutio felt helpless. For as much as he wanted to intervene, his own sword was gone; and if he stepped in, there was nothing stopping Benvolio from doing the same and most likely getting hurt in the process. Besides, he doubted anyone would be able to get between the fighters now; all he could do was watch in a dull sort of fascination as, parry after parry, blow after blow, both men spun and danced their way through the streets in a tango sure to end up deadly.

“Mercutio-” Benvolio’s voice was pleading enough to make him feel as if he were the one about to be stabbed in the gut.

“There’s nothing I can _do,_ Ben.”

The entire thing happened so fast that Mercutio almost couldn't register it; one second both men were squaring off, and suddenly with one swift movement Emilio was pinned on the ground and Tiberius held the boy's own rapier at his neck.

"I'd _tell_ you to watch your tongue, boy," the Capulet snarled, his voice filled with a dark sort of inconsolable rage that Mercutio recognized as hereditary. "But I think you're well past such lessons."

He was going to kill his challenger; that much was clear, but in the space of a few seconds Mercutio had little time to react. With his mind just catching up with the world around him, the only thing he could think to do was hold up an arm to keep Benvolio from trying to play peacemaker like a fool. He didn't have the chance to react; there was nothing he could have done.

Alessandro, however, was not so hindered.

The shock of iron suddenly slicing clear through flesh left the entire assembly- audience, brawlers, and the weapon-wielder himself- paralyzed. One the ground, Emilio’s eyes were wide and his face had gone gray from terror; over him, Tiberius Capulet’s eyes slowly drifted down to the blade that had found it’s way straight through his chest and was now sticking out like a fearsome growth from the man’s body. Alessandro stood behind him, the sword still clutched in his hands, trembling so violently that Mercutio thought it a wonder the boy hadn’t gotten sick right there.

In an instant, the shock wore off; and Tybalt’s father spun around , incensed beyond measure. “You,” he snarled to the youth, and the only thing that saved Alessandro from having his head sliced off was Mercutio finally being able to push himself to react and snatching the boy back before he could meet his death. Practically tossing the young Montague behind him, Alessandro was caught up in Benvolio’s arms; the other boy wrapped himself protectively around his cousin, glowering fiercely as if daring Tiberius to take one step closer. 

However, taking another step was something Tiberius certainly couldn’t do; likely, deduced Mercutio, due to the fact that there was a sword impaled straight through his back. He stood in front of Mercutio, swaying on his feet; a dawning realisation began to spill onto his face, filling his eyes and twisting his mouth into something like a grimace.

“The Capulets,” he gasped out, the voice that had always been as hard as stone wavering. His eyes bore intently into Mercutio’s, locking on the nearest person they could find, and the prince’s nephew stared back with wide, frightened eyes. _Look away…_ why wouldn’t he just look away? Mercutio felt as if he were burning, on fire from the inside out; never had he seen anything like this before. Never had someone died in front of him like this, so brutally. 

“The Capulets,” repeated Tiberius in a voice thin as reeds, “shall h-have their revenge…”

And then Tybalt’s father collapsed straight into Mercutio’s arms.

Violently trembling, Mercutio balked at suddenly bearing the weight of the floundering man; hastily, with a small cry of alarm himself, he lowered the body to the pavement. Indeed, by that time, a body was all that was left of Tiberius Capulet; his eyes stared up, unseeing, at nothing.

On his knees, Mercutio stared wide-eyed at the man who’d just died in his arms. He’d known this man; Tybalt’s father. A man who liked drink a bit too much, a man who beat his son when he was opposed, not a good man- but one he’d known, who had just died. _In his very arms._

Mercutio’s vision flickered in and out of blackness as he tumbled back, his palms digging hard into the stone below him to hold him upright; and Tiberius Capulet remained where he had fallen.


	2. Chapter 2

_Their friendship was one of competition, but there was an unspoken mutual trust there even as they grew. Mercutio didn’t tell anyone about the bruises he spotted on Tybalt’s skin; and Tybalt never questioned why all of a sudden Mercutio and his brother moved in to the palace with his uncle, or why Mercutio never liked speaking about his parents. For all they bickered, they trusted each other; they both believed that the other would never truly do anything to hurt him._

xXx

The silence after the Capulet’s body fell still to the ground was almost deafening; it echoed throughout the dusty streets, screaming in the ears of the people unfortunate enough to bear witness to what had just unfolded. All around the corpse, time seemed to have at once ceased. Mercutio remained where he knelt next to the body, the shock at what he had just seen stunning him into stone. Emilio even now lay on the ground, staring in undisguised horror at the blood slowly weaving its way along the cobblestones towards him; still sheltered protectively in Benvolio’s arms, Alessandro too seemed paralyzed by the weight of the life he had just taken.

The only one who had not been completely rendered immobile, it seemed, was Benvolio; swallowing thickly, the young Montague forced himself to turn his head away from the body just in time to see a few of the small, shocked crowd that had congregated around during the fight- ironic, he thought, how people always seem to come out of hiding when there’s a brawl to be had- run off in the direction of the Capulet mansion. That could only mean one thing; in a matter of minutes the Capulets would take to the streets demanding blood for blood. Both Emilio and Alessandro were in terrible danger.

“You need to go,” he stated, turning to his cousin and seizing him by the shoulders. “You and your brother need to go into hiding, today. Do you understand me?”

Alessandro could barely choke out a single word. “Wh-where?”

“Anywhere you can,” Benvolio ordered sternly; he knew that whatever was to happen with the Capulets in the hours to come, the two brothers with blood on their hands needed to be out of the way. “You’ve just killed Lady Capulet’s brother. The entire family will be after your heads. You need to hide.”

“We don’t have anywhere to go.” This time is was Emilio who spoke, barely daring to raise his voice over the faint din that was already rising up from the Capulet-inhabited side of town. Benvolio noticed that the teen was trembling slightly; he felt a heavy pang of sympathy for both brothers.

“You can go to a house my uncle has, out in the woods,” spoke up Mercutio suddenly; he swung to his feet, his eyes as alert as ever, although his face was ashen and he looked more rattled than Benvolio could remember seeing him. “No one will find you there. It will be safe.”

Alessandro helped his brother to his feet; they both stared at the young royal with shaken skepticality. “Are you… sure?”

“That you can hide there, yes, of course. It belongs to my uncle, and by extension belongs to me. That you’d be safe there, yes to that as well- as long as the two of you don’t make any pitiful mistakes.” Mercutio raised an arm, pointing down the street in the direction Benvolio knew that, if travelled long enough, would take both boys straight of out town. “It’s not far past the wooden bridge, if you venture to the left of the river and stray off the path. You’ll be able to see the lodge after about two minutes of walking; if you’re worried about getting lost, then do yourselves a favor and don’t.”

The brothers exchanged glances before hastily nodding; they carefully avoided looking at the body still lying on the street, muttering a hasty thanks to Benvolio and Mercutio before running off in the direction shown. Benvolio watched anxiously until his two cousins escaped from view; his own conscience weighed heavily upon him. How awful, a self-imposed exile to save the lives of two so young and full of potential. But then again, he knew, exile was infinitely better than death. At least now the brothers would have a chance at a future once this all blew over- and he knew it would blow over. This was Verona. There were casualties of the feud every day; Tiberius Capulet had simply been another.

His eyes were drawn to Mercutio, who still stood tall on his feet, though there was a minute tremble in his hands that Benvolio’s keen eyes didn’t miss. “Are you okay?”

Mercutio didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Alright.” Mercutio wasn’t willing to open up to him, and that irked Benvolio (though it didn’t surprise him). Now, however, they had bigger problems on their hands; not only was a large group of Capulets, with none other than Lady Montague herself at the head of the pack, racing down towards the scene, in the opposite direction Benvolio could see a crowd of Montagues doing the same. It was perfect weather for a massive brawl; the dark haired teen swallowed thickly, knowing that at the moment he and Mercutio were caught right in the middle of it all.

He felt Mercutio’s hand on his shoulder, gently drawing Benvolio back and away from the proximity of the body. Benvolio didn’t have to question the simple protective gesture; Mercutio knew that as a Montague, Benvolio was sure to be a target in whatever repercussions were to follow, and he wanted him safely out of the way. Obligingly, the dark haired teen allowed himself to be led to refuge among the few other spectators that had remained, standing staunchly be Mercutio’s side as both houses arrived at the bloodbath.

Lady Capulet was the first to reach the scene; her long blonde hair was pinned up atop her head in a way that suggested she had been getting it done when she was interrupted, and the long red gown she was wearing spread out around her when she collapsed to the ground, the fabric immediately growing soaked with her brother’s blood. With a wail that steadily rose in volume, she knelt at her brother’s side, drawing his stiff figure into her arms and holding him tightly. “ _No,_ ” she moaned, rocking herself back and forth slightly. “My brother. My precious blood, my own brother has been slain! They have killed you, the barbarians, and left your body in the streets!”

The rest of the Capulets arrived just as quickly; the Montagues were not far behind. Upon catching sight of his aunt and uncle, Benvolio felt a pang of relief; his aunt’s sharp blue eyes landed on him, and Mercutio gave him a slight shove in the direction of his family. Upon reaching his aunt, he found himself wrapped protectively in her arms, the sleeves of her gown draping over his shoulders and seeming to shadow him in black and blue. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Old Capulet demanded, glowing at his rival Montague; the rest of the group behind him imitated his hostility, and the Montague party mirrored it back. “My wife’s brother lies slain, and by Montague hands!”

“It was not I who killed him, nor my son,” exclaimed Montague, the greying older man clad in the deep royal blue characteristic to his house. “You have no evidence to justify your rage towards us.”

“Call forth the witnesses, then,” Capulet decreed, and Benvolio noted with alarm that despite the calm tone of the man’s voice he looked quite ready to take a swing at his bitter rival. That was nothing, however, compared to Lady Capulet; still curled up with her brother’s body, she looked more than eager to tear every last Montague throat out with her teeth. Capulet continued: “Let he who saw it all speak!”

Now, Benvolio knew, it was his turn to speak up; where he had managed to go mostly unnoticed during the arrival of the crowds and had slipped under the radar in the middle of the tense atmosphere, it was now he who had to come forward. He glanced around to try to catch the supportive eye of Mercutio, but was alarmed to realize that the prince’s nephew was now nowhere to be found. Swallowing his courage, he stepped out of the Montague crowd.

“I saw it all, Uncle,” he confessed, turning to address the aging Montague. There were a few murmurs from both the Montague and Capulet crowds who recognized him; most prominent was the hiss of _“Murderer!”_ from Lady Capulet’s own lips. But Benvolio forced himself to ignore them, persisting on. “I with Mercutio bore witness to the fatal brawl, and may nothing but truth come from my lips.”

Montague’s face was grim; he obviously didn’t like the fact that his fourteen year old nephew had managed to get caught up in such a controversial slaying. “What did you see, Benvolio? Who killed the Capulet?”

“It was a situation of tension.” Benvolio’s eyes drifted towards the body of the man; quickly he diverted his attention back up again, unwilling and unable to force himself to look. “Tiberius Capulet was goaded into a fight by the reckless Emilio, who was quickly bested. His brother Alessandro, in defense of Emilio’s life, took up his own sword and was forced to run Tiberius through.” His eyes flickered back and forth between the two heads of houses. “An unfortunate situation, through and through; but a life taken to save a life!”

For a long moment there was silence amongst the congregated crowd of Montagues and Capulets, who all stared wide-eyed between the body and the teenager as if trying to process the account they’d just been told. And then Lady Capulet’s shrill cry rose once more above the din of silence: _“Murder!”_

And just like that, the square erupted into chaos.

xXx

_His mother was too frail to lift him once he’d grown into a hearty toddler, and usually too busy to spare him much of her time; Tybalt came to know that it was his father who could always be counted on to play when he desired it. The man, with his strong arms and wild mane of hair, seemed to Tybalt a true hero; he’d pick his young son in his arms and spin him through the air, raising endless giggles out of the little boy._

_One of Tybalt’s favorite games was swordfight; except, for all he tried, and despite the delightful thrill the little boy got from the idea of a brawl, it seemed that his father was never willing to let him win. Each time he’d be trounced, winding up disarmed of his plastic sword and on the ground in a matter of seconds; after about five rounds of this game, with no variation in it’s ending, Tybalt would be forced to admit defeat. He one day asked his father childishly just why he would never let him win._

_“If I were to let you win, it would mean nothing,” explained to older man. “When you finally do grow skilled enough to beat me, the victory shall never taste sweeter.”_

_And to the little boy who could not know he would never get the chance to see his father bested by his hand, no words had ever made more sense- or made him feel more motivated to win._

xXx

Tybalt had just finished his book when a servant busted into the kitchen, ordering him to quickly make his way up to the Capulet mansion- something had happened to his father.

Tybalt’s heart didn’t pound, it didn’t race; in some ways, he supposed, he’d been expecting his father to get into trouble for a long time. There had been anger stirring in his veins for as long as Tybalt could remember, but over the past few months his blood had only seemed to sour even further. If his father had gotten into a fight, Tybalt would not have been surprised; but as he made his way up the street towards the house of his uncle and his aunt rushed out of the mansion, followed closely by a group of servants and family friends, what really caught him aback him was the look of _pure terror_ she wore on her face. His aunt had never been a person to openly show her emotions; for the first time, Tybalt felt a pang of fear. What exactly had happened to his father? What trouble had he gotten himself into that could make his aunt look so frightened?

Tybalt didn’t run after his aunt; instead, he found his feet carrying him back to his house. He knew that the single-bladed sword he carried in his belt at all times might not be enough if a real fight broke out; which, in all likelihood, it would. There was barely a question in his mind of what had happened. Gauging by his aunt’s reaction, only two things could have happened; his father was either dead or had killed someone else. Either way, that meant a massive fight would break out between both houses, and Tybalt needed to be ready, especially if honor dictated that he must do the one thing he’d always known he would have to upon instance of his father’s death.

He tucked a fixed blade into his belt, and slid two more daggers into each one of his boots; a specialized pocket in the sleeve of his heavy leather coat (designed for both protection and mobility, nearly impossible to penetrate with a blade) held another fold-away knife. His sword remained where it always was, at his side, but he also tucked a second one into a sheath on the other side of his belt. Despite the urgency of the situation, there was a sense of tranquility that Tybalt was able to find in being so heavily armed; he never felt more at peace than when he was a living weapon.

Hurriedly snapping himself out of his daze, he hastened out of the house again; getting ready must have taken him longer than he thought, for already he could hear the sounds of chaos coming from the middle of town. He broke into a run, racing towards the scene; when his father fought he fought for blood, and even if he hadn’t already killed someone Tybalt didn’t doubt that if allowed to continue unchecked he probably wo-

The boy stopped in his tracks.

He could see the fight now, in all it’s glory; Montagues and Capulets raced this way and that, hitting and punching and kicking. Someone had lit a hay barrel on fire; the eerie glow and smoke of flame, despite the sun being high in the sky, made the scene look all the more apocalyptic. He could see his uncle swinging his sword at one of the Montague’s closer cousins; his aunt had a fistful of Lady Montague’s hair in her hand.

And in the middle of it all lay a body, soaking in a pool of its own blood.

 _“Father?”_ The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it; he hadn’t intended to sound so lost, so like a little boy, but he wasn’t able to help it. Even knowing what had probably happened, Tybalt realized that until now he’d never in his wildest dreams actually believed that his father could be dead.

But the body lying in the square was certainly his father, and he was certainly not alive anymore.

At once, the entire chaotic brawl froze in its tracks; to Tybalt, the earth seemed to stop. Slowly, the crowd of Montagues and Capulets parted to allow him access to the fallen man, and Tybalt followed the path made out for him with mounting dread building in his stomach. The body of his father grew closer and closer; his mind was abuzz with words, words, and it couldn’t seem to silence itself.

_Always knew this could happen… he’s dead… your mother… an orphan… alone… honor… have to kill whoever is responsible… killed your father… have to kill them… alone…_

The corpse was at his feet. The toes of his boots were slowly becoming drenched by his father’s blood; Tybalt stared, almost transfixed, at the way it followed the smooth trails of the cobblestones and ran crimson into the gutter. He knelt down, placing a hand on his father’s back; his body was still and cold. No blood pumped through his veins; no air filled his lungs. The man was dead.

Tybalt was silent a long, still moment. Then he slowly rose to his feet.

“My father,” he said in a voice trembling with fury, turning to the crowd assembled, “is dead. Who has done this? Who is the coward who has stolen my father’s life?” His eyes ran over the crowd; guilty faces, so many guilty, so many filled with sorrow for the boy who was now an orphan. “ _Name him,_ ” he continued, “and I shall avenge my father!”

“Tybalt…” It was young Benvolio who spoke; that small, thin, frail boy, close nephew of the Montagues who lived with them and had been taken under their wing. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen; but to Tybalt’s eyes, he was as much of a criminal as anyone there. In an instant he had drawn his sword, and had it trained on the young boy’s neck. Lady Montague let out a shrill cry.

“Was it you?” he demanded. “Did you kill my father?”

Benvolio was wide-eyed; he seemed at a loss for words, unable to stammer even a confirmation or a denial with the blade at his throat. To Tybalt, this was as good as an acquiescence; he could recognize the shadow of guilt in the other boy’s eyes. Only a voice suddenly speaking up from behind his kept him from running his sword through the Montague scum’s neck.

“Tybalt Capulet, put down your sword this instant, and we shall see justice served.”

It was the voice of the prince himself; Tybalt spun on his heel, and a relieved Benvolio staggered back into his aunt’s protective arms. Escalus, on his white steed indicative of royalty, had just rode up to the scene, flanked by two other horses and riders. His voice was stern, but his gaze was sympathetic; it infuriated Tybalt. He didn’t need sympathy, he needed revenge.

“Who has seen this blood be spilled today?” Escalus demanded to the crowd, and vaguely Tybalt registered Lord Montague stepping forward to speak. But Tybalt’s eyes had wandered to the horse on his right, the rider of which was all too familiar to him. Mercutio stared back at him, his golden hair framing a tanned face, and eyes- bronze eyes that bore into him, that seemed to beseech him. _I’m sorry,_ they seemed to say- to scream.

It hit Tybalt like a bolt. _Mercutio._

Mercutio knew who had killed his father.


	3. Chapter 3

_“I’m sorry about your mother.”_

_Tybalt didn’t look up, even though he knew that Mercutio was standing behind him; his mother lay in her coffin, still and peaceful, ready to be lowered down into the grave that was to be her final resting place. The service had finished; most people were beginning to head home. Why was Mercutio here, talking to him, expressing sadness for him?_

_“She’s dead,” Tybalt replied softly, unwilling to turn around and face his sometimes-friend. His eyes burned with tears that stung like fire, tears he stubbornly refused to shed. He was a man, as his father and mother had always taken great pains to remind him; his job was to protect, to defend. He was not supposed to show when he was hurting, when it felt like his entire life had shattered like broken glass in a single instant, with one violent shake of the earth. He couldn’t. He had to be strong._

_But either Mercutio couldn’t understand this or didn’t want to. He persisted, and Tybalt could hear his footsteps as he drew nearer. “I know it’s sad, and it really really hurts. But after a while you won’t feel as bad anymore. You’ll remember them like looking at pictures, not like they were really there and really gone.”_

_“Just leave me alone!” Tybalt snarled. “You don’t know anything, so leave, leave me alone!” He jerked forward in an effort to escape Mercutio’s too-sympathetic voice, his words that wormed their way under his skin. He didn’t want to remember his mother through pictures in his head; the feeling of her fingers twining through his hair, the sound of her voice crooning old songs, these were things that needed to stay with him forever. In spite of himself, the tears blurred his eyesight, his throat burned, and he knew he couldn’t yell at Mercutio any more even if he wanted too. He stood in front of his mother’s new gravestone, trembling slightly- but he didn’t know if he was sad, or furious, or somewhere in between._

_He didn’t know what to think when he suddenly felt a pair of child-sized arms wrap around his shoulders from behind, and found himself being pulled into a furious embrace. But he didn’t pull away._

xXx

Tybalt rounded on Mercutio, his eyes ablaze with unadulterated fury. “You,” he practically snarled, and he saw the prince’s nephew draw back slightly in alarm. He was used to Tybalt’s temper, almost desensitized to it; but the way his eyes burned now made him seem far more dangerous than Mercutio had ever thought of him before.

Tybalt wasn’t just irate; he was filled with a sort of anger that he had never felt before, a rage that turned his blood to acid in his veins, that made his skin feel like it was blistering, like his soul was desperately rebelling against its mortal containment. He could have killed the entire crowd at that moment, not just his father’s murderers, not just Benvolio or Mercutio or the entire house of Montague. Everyone dead at his feet; the sickening thought felt as if it were the only way he could ever feel even slightly at rest again.

“Tybalt.” As the Capulet, his sword still drawn, took a step closer to him, Mercutio’s voice was low and even. “You need to stop. I didn’t kill your father.”

“You know who did. You saw it.”

“Yes I did,” he replied, and then exchanged a glance with his uncle. Promptly, the Prince put himself between his nephew and the incensed swordsman, staring sternly down from his perch on the horse at Tybalt. Mollified slightly by the royal presence of Escalus, Tybalt backed down.

“The sympathies of the entire house of Escalus and all my relatives are with you, young Tybalt Capulet.” Prince Escalus’s eyes softened gently as he stared down at the boy; for a moment, Tybalt was sure he was going to say more, but instead the Prince raised his gaze to scan the crowd. “I ask again; who had seen this act of villainy be done, and who will speak on behalf of the event?”

“I will, your liege.” It was Lord Montague who stepped forward, back squared and shoulders straight. “My young nephew, Benvolio, bore witness to the duel and subsequent fall of Tiberius Capulet.”

“Then,” the Prince raised an eyebrow, “should it not be the boy who gives testimony?”

Now it was Lady Montague who spoke up, her young nephew still nestled protectively in her arms; in his aunt’s embrace, Benvolio stared up at the Prince with wide hazel eyes. “Please, your liege, he is barely fourteen! He is only a child to this world! Allow him to testify in private, at the very least, in the company of his uncle!”

“Very well.” Escalus’s lips were pursed as he stared, from the boy to the body on the ground, gaze flickering more than once to the despairing family. Lady Capulet was still on the ground, ignoring her husband’s attempts to remove her from her brother’s side; the entire front of her dress had become smeared with blood, and crimson ran its way down her arms, staining her hands dark. She clung to the corpse of the fallen, tears dripping down her face, sobbing quietly. She was a compelling image; the very portrait of the Madonna mourning her lost blood.

At last, Escalus seemed to decide what to do. “Montague, you and the boy shall come with me promptly to give your statements. My nephew Mercutio- yet another witness to this fight- shall do the same. Capulets, you will be paid recompenses for the loss of your kin; his body is to be collected by the mortisians and his funeral will be funded in full. However, _no action_ is to be taken against the Montague house as an act of vengeance for this. I repeat, _no blood is to be spilled for blood._ Do not go against my word, or the law shall turn upon you and all sympathies shall be lost.”

The entire Capulet house had been stunned into silence by the Prince’s orders; evidently taking this as acquiescence, Escalus nodded to Montague; in turn, the patriarch bowed and mounted his own horse, helping his young nephew up after him. In a matter of seconds they had ridden away, the small troope of horses following the Prince towards the castle. All that remained were the Montagues and Capulets- including the despairing sister and astonished son.

At last, Lady Capulet allowed her husband to drag her to her feet; already, the crowd was beginning to disperse, the Montagues abandoning the scene much more readily than the Capulets. Lady Capulet was so drained that her husband needed to physically support her in order for her to stand upright. “The prince,” muttered the blonde woman, trembling violently in her husband’s arms, “has betrayed us.”

“He has given us up!” exclaimed another cousin. “Does justice mean nothing to him?”

“Only the Capulets can avenge this death, and only Montague blood shall lay the upheaved soul to rest!”

“Death to the Montagues!”

“The son shall reap vengeance for the soul of his father!”

And all of a sudden there were a thousand voices, all talking at once, screaming in his ear- _words,_ words he knew so well, duty, honor, loyalty, _revenge._ And Tybalt couldn’t take it.

He ran. He fled the square, the people, and the corpse of his father lying in a poll of his own blood on the cobblestones. He didn’t look back.

xXx

_“I’m going to catch you! I’ll get you!”_

_“No, daddy, no!”_

_“Run, Tybalt, before your father catches up to you!”_

_Tybalt ran with all his might, but his toddler legs were just too short to match the long strides of his father; with a shriek of delight, the little boy was lifted off the ground and dangled upside down._

_“Now that I’ve caught you up in my great big monster claws…” His father held him up close and peered into Tybalt’s round face. “I’m going to eat you!”_

_The little boy shrieked with laughter._

xXx

_Crash._

Shattered glass decorated the floors, but Tybalt paid little mind to the sound of it crunching under his boots as he lifted yet another picture frame up into the air. He brought it to the floor with a resounding, furious _smash_ , and the wooden frame was reduced to little but splinters still clenched in his fist. With a snarl he cast the remains aside and reached for another photograph. This one hit against the far wall, flung with a force violent enough to break bones, and the shattered remnants hit the floor.

Tybalt’s arm strained behind him for yet another photo, but none came to his grip. He finally forced himself to look back; there was nothing there. All the frames in the household, few that there were, had been smashed, and the pictures within….

His eyes flickered down to the ground in front of him. From under the shards of glass, the smiling face of his mother stared up at him. A piece of splintered wood just concealed the face of the toddler she held in her lap, arms wrapped protectively around his small form. That was a photo he’d taken from his room. The rest had been collected as he tore through the house, his mind set on one thing alone; to destroy.

And he had destroyed them. All of them.

What did any of it mean now that his father was gone? What did any of these worthless memories mean to him now that he was an orphan, now that he had no guiding hand of a parent, now that, alone, he was expected to be a man- tasked with avenging the death of his father by ending a life himself?

His father was gone, and so was his mother. It was so simple.

He could not bring them back. There was only one thing left for him to do- one thing he had to do, for the sake of everyone, for the reputation of his father and family and for his own sake. He had to kill the one responsible for him father’s death.

There was no other way out. He had to take a life.

That did not bother him in the slightest.

Gritting his teeth, Tybalt slammed the heel of his shoe down against the glass. It splintered once more under his heel.

xXx

The boy in front of him was watching so curiously- so eagerly- that Mercutio was almost tempted to push him away. “And what happened then?” Valentine prompted, his wide blue eyes eager and imploring. He wanted to hear the ending of a story that had not played itself out yet; there was nothing Mercutio could tell him.

“After Tybalt almost killed Benvolio, you mean?” Mercutio asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or after we left, so I’d have no way of knowing what followed? Is that what you want to know?”

Valentine blinked at him for a moment, seeming to attempt to comprehend his brother’s statement and utterly failing. “Yes,” he replied surely, nodding his head. Mercutio heaved a sigh.

“After we left, I suppose Tybalt and his family all crawled off to their little bat cave somewhere and convalesced, plotting their evil schemes to the heavens. I really don’t know- I told you what happened.” Rolling his eyes, Mercutio leaned back against the bed and drew his knees up to his chest, purposely ignoring his younger brother. At this point, however, Valentine was being deliberately obtuse; whether it was just to annoy him or if he really did want to hear what had happened to Tybalt after the Prince and his witnesses had left, Mercutio wasn’t sure. His brother curled up right against him, pressing his head against Mercutio’s shoulder; snorting, Mercutio turned away, but Valentine simply wrapped his arms around the older boy’s shoulders.

“Gettoff, Val!”

“Nah,” quipped the younger brother. “This is fun!”

“Val, I mean it- get off me!” With a shove, Mercutio managed to push the young boy away. Valentine tumbled off the bed, landing hard on the floor and not getting up again. Mercutio was still for a moment; and then, mainly because it was still his bedroom and he really didn't want his little brother deciding to sleep on the floor that night, he poked his head over the side.

Valentine was sitting up, rubbing his shoulder and pouting. "That actually hurt!" he exclaimed. "Why are you being mean to me?"

"Sorry," Mercutio sighed. "I didn't mean to push you hard."

Valentine popped his head up over the side of the bed again, resting his chin on the comforter. "You're _sad._ You should _talk_ about it."

"No."

"Wanna talk to Uncle about it?"

"No."

Even though his back was to both his brother and the door, Mercutio could sense it when a new person walked into the room. "Mercutio, giving single-worded answers? Valentine, maybe you really should leave him alone. He might have something catching."

"He's not sick, Uncle Es," replied the twelve year old, "he's just pouting about something."

"Maybe he wants to be left alone to pout." Mercutio could hear Valentine, after a moment of hesitation, move away from the bed- the younger sibling never liked to argue with their uncle, even on the smallest things. He always did what Escalus told him. Mercutio wasn't so hindered.

He stayed still for a long while, until he had nearly convinced himself that he was alone. Then a voice jolted him out of his delusion.

"Mercutio." Escalus was still in the room. "I understand that you must be upset over what happened today, and I can even almost understand why you wouldn't want to tell me the whereabouts of your two friends."

Was he going to harp on that again? Mercutio's mouth turned down in a scowl. It had been an unspoken agreement between Benvolio and him; in the interest of keeping Emilio and Alessandro safe, their whereabouts would remains undisclosed to anyone and everyone. No matter how many times his uncle asked, Mercutio wasn't going to let those two get in any more trouble.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and his back tensed. He heard his uncle sigh. "If you want to talk... about what happened today... with Capulet... you can always come to me. I know how hard it is to see someone die."

Mercutio squeezed his eyes shut, and held himself very, very still. For a few moments his uncle lingered behind him, perhaps waiting for him to say something. Mercutio was stubborn in his silence; after a long moment, the sound of the door shutting behind the Prince sounded throughout the room.

Mercutio counted to ten in his head, then sat up on his bed. He slung his legs over the side and pulled on his shoes, glancing out the window as he did so; the sun was beginning to sink down into the sky. It would be dark by the time he got there; that would be for the best.

There was only one person he could talk to; one person he needed to talk to.


End file.
